Only Pictures, Videos, and Memories to Keep Me Company
by GDAE24
Summary: Sherlock receives the news that John has gone missing and is now assumed dead. He hides away his emotions until the memories of John are brought back up, causing him to self-destruct faster. How is everyone supposed to help him if the only one that can stop it is John? Warnings: Johnlock, One-sided Lestrade/Sherlock, sort of Major Character Death, but he's not really dead.
1. Chapter 1

__**Disclaimer:**** I own nothing, the characters and show belong to the writers and producers of BBC.**

** Okay, so first Sherlock story. It's a little depressing throughout the first few chapters, but promises on a happy ending. Plus, I know it's a little short, sorry about that. Hope everyone still likes it, though. Thanks for reviews and follows!**

_**Chapter 1**_

He got the first call at a crime scene. Noting the number of John's army base, he instantly answered, walking away from the body. Everyone stared, murmuring in confusion, the same thought going through their minds, "The freak walking away from a body? Why?" They grew even more confused as the man literally ran from the crime scene, yelling at his phone.

No one new that Captain John Watson had just been shot in the line of duty, or that the squads couldn't find him. They didn't know that The Freak, Sherlock Holmes, was married to said John Watson for the better part of four years, marrying one year before John was sent to Afghanistan. As far as they knew, Sherlock Holmes was a hated, unloved, sociopath who got off on crime scenes rather than with human beings.

The second call was three weeks later delivering the news that John hadn't been found and that the search parties were giving up. He had been in his flat then, not having worked a case since receiving the previous news. He just hadn't been able to concentrate.

When he'd received that news, he'd collapsed on the floor, dropping his phone, and letting out heart wrenching sobs. He'd crawled to the coffee table, pulling off the scrapbook that lay there, looking through each picture. Despite having only three years together, John had taken a lot of pictures, filling up at least four different albums with picture after picture of them. When Sherlock asked why. He laughed, pulling him into a kiss.

"So we can always be near each other. Whenever I miss you while I'm away, I'll just look at these and I can relive each memory." he'd explained, snapping a picture of that kiss.

Sherlock looked through and stared at each picture for minutes, and when morning came, he hadn't gotten close to finishing the album.

Mrs. Hudson came up after not hearing anything for four days, finding him curled up on the couched, sobbing his heart out, holding his most recent and last picture with John. She had quietly pulled him to their room, taking off his grungy clothes and handing him some of John's old ones. He'd cried harder, but slipped them on, holding them to his face and breathing in his scent.

That night was the first time he had gotten sleep since the second call, curling up on John's side of the bed, pulling his pillow to his chest. His sleep was plagued with nightmare after nightmare of John being continually shot and tortured, dying somewhere in the enemy's hands. After waking up screaming for the third time, he jumped out of bed and ran to the kitchen.

Quietly, he grabbed a mug, putting on some tea, trying to distract his ever vivid mind on something else. When it whistled he grasped the cup, pouring tea in it and taking a long sip, spitting it out after a few seconds. He looked down realizing he'd grabbed John's favorite tea and was using the man's favorite mug.

Angrily, he did the only thing that made sense, he threw the mug against the wall, shattering it into a million tiny bits. He moved, yanking the kettle off the stove and did the same thing with that. Continuing, he slowly moved around the kitchen, grabbing things and throwing them as hard as he could against the wall, relishing the sound of glass and clay breaking.

That's how he was found next, by his brother, sitting in the middle of the broken pieces, bleeding. Mycroft had quietly pulled him up, taking him out and into a small black car. He checked him into the hospital to get him cleaned and stitched up, going back to the house to clean up the bloodied mess.

Sherlock didn't speak for the next week, sitting by the window and staring out across London, the weather mirroring his mood. Neither his brother nor Mrs. Hudson could break him from his trance. He didn't cry, scream, curse, nothing. He just sat silently, watching the city go about, but not seeing anything at all.

The thing that worried the two the most, was how fast Sherlock seemed to recover. After that one week he was back, solving crimes and running about London like nothing ever happened. He was more careless, more reckless, and Mycroft believed he was truly trying to kill himself, but Sherlock survived each time, Scotland Yard and Lestrade getting there just in time, every time.

He'd cleared the entire flat of any sign of John, hiding, not throwing away, every memory, blocking them out. There were changes in him, few and far between, but if a person were to look close enough, long enough, they'd notice, and Mycroft was such a person. He didn't think Sherlock could be trusted alone at any time.

Mycroft knew his brother lay in a pit of depression, and he knew he was blocking it out, hiding from the pain instead of facing it. He had to wonder, though, if Sherlock allowed himself to feel the depression, would it eat him? Would it swallow him alive and kill him slowly? He believed it would.

Both he and Mrs. Hudson believed in one thing, and that was that John was the best thing to ever happen to Sherlock. They'd never seen him so happy, so alive, so human. They, too, missed John terribly, and they missed the man Sherlock had become since meeting John, for when John went away, so did he. The Sherlock that loved and felt compassion and allowed his emotions to be shown. Without John, it was all gone.

Of course, no one knew this, no one besides the few in Sherlock's close, personal circle. Everyone refused to see, observe, the changes in the man, whether it had been from when he'd met John to now. Scotland Yard and its employees still thought the man to be the same as he always was. An arrogant, know-it-all freak who showed them up on every case.

They didn't understand that every remark, every jab, pulled him further into the pit just a tiny bit more, tugging him closer and closer to where he would never be able to come back. In their eyes, he ignored them, sure, but they couldn't see the small part that he hid, buried away, that felt something, anything, at those words. What they saw was a cold, soulless man who was everything they hated wrapped into one - not human - being.

Mycroft sometimes slept there, in Sherlock's flat, watching over his baby brother, not speaking about the cries, screams, and whimpers that shook his unconscious as he slept. He ignored the way his brother refused to care for himself, even more than usual, unless he was forced to do something.

He'd tried to mention John, once, but the man went into a sort of trance, vision clouding over and he stared into space for an hour. When he came back, he seemed confused, not remembering the subject of the conversation they had had previously. All he seemed to feel was a sort of anger that he wasn't sure where it came from and yelled until Mycroft left the flat, leaving Mrs. Hudson in charge for a couple days.

Mrs. Hudson cried, not in front of Sherlock, but when she left to cook or change or when he wasn't around, she let the tears fall. She stayed strong and stoic in front of Sherlock, treating him like he was her own son. She didn't mind caring for Sherlock, she tried her best to keep him healthy, up to par, but she felt he resented her for it. She knew he no longer wanted to live, having given up without John, and she told Mycroft as much.

They watched silently as he slowly self-destructed, working overtime to prevent it, but they could see him shutting down. He would be okay for a few more years, in Mycroft's opinion, but he didn't want to live anymore and people can't make others live if they don't want to.

Sherlock, of course, didn't acknowledge or notice any of this, working his body to the max, throwing himself into any and every distraction he could get. The two had prevented him from starting up on drugs again, as well as smoking, leaving him with little distraction as he tried to crawl his way out of his head, away from the emotions that would consume him some day.

No one was prepared for when that day finally came, when his brain and his body shut down, not understanding what they could possibly do to help. The only solution was John, and no one could bring back the dead, well, assumed to be dead. Mycroft had tried, tried making them continue, even sent in specialized men to go into enemy bases, infiltrate all the hide outs, but no one bothered listening, and he was at a loss for what else he could do.

After trying his best, Sherlock found himself with no free time, taking cases from both the Yard and special clients. He no longer waited for nines or tens, he was busy with ones and twos, annoying other people as he tried to make the crime more elaborate than it really was before relenting and telling them who it was.

Without John, Sherlock was broken, he was a half without his other. He was alone in a world where no one understood or tried to understand. Without John, he was nothing, something to abuse before discarding, and he was empty. He was so empty.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:**** I own nothing, the characters and show belong to the writers and producers of BBC.**

** Giving a thank you to everyone who reviewed, followed, and everthing else, it means so much to me! Here's the next chapter, hope everyone enjoys it, but it does get even more sad and depressing here. Promises on a happy ending, though!**

_**Chapter 2**_

_Three Months Later_

Sherlock ran inside, breathing heavily, and letting out a long sigh, not the killer. In a different country, good alibi. He leant back, resting his head against the wall, blocking out the voice that threatened to enter, the laugh, the face, his face.

"Breathe." he told himself in his head, "Just breathe."

"Sherlock," came Mrs. Hudson's voice, thankfully breaking into his thoughts, "what have you done?"

"Mrs. Hudson?" he asked in confusion.

"Upstairs." she sniffled.

Looking up, Sherlock quickly turned and dashed up the stairs, wondering what it was that had upset his landlady so much. Upon entering, he was met with Lestrade sitting in his chair, his squad walking about the flat dressed in the same clothes they would for a crime scene.

"What are you doing?!" he asked, shocked.

"Well I knew you'd find the case." Greg stated, "I'm not stupid."

Sherlock scoffed, "You can't break into our-my flat!"

"And you can't withhold evidence." he paused, "And I didn't break into your flat-"

"Well what do you call this then?" he snapped.

Greg looked around with a pause, then smiled, "It's a drugs bust!"

Sherlock scowled, he could practically hear John's exasperated laugh in his head. No, he couldn't think about that, couldn't think about him.

"I. Am. Clean!" he ground out, pulling up his sleeve, "I don't even smoke."

Greg got up, standing next to him and pulling back his own sleeve, "Neither do I. Now, let's work together."

"Anderson?!" he noted, "What are you doing here? You're not even on the drug squad!"

"Oh," he said, "I volunteered."

"They're not particularly on the drugs squad, but they were quite keen." Greg explained

"Are these human eyes?" came Sally's voice.

"Put those back!" Sherlock cried indignantly.

"They were in the microwave." she stated.

"It's for an experiment." he said, exasperated, "This is childish."

"Well, I'm dealing with a child." Lestrade retorted, standing up, "Sherlock, this is our case, I'm letting you in-"

"Oh ho!" Sally's excited voice interrupted them. "What is this?" she cried, walking out, holding a large scrapbook. "Memories? Shall we see what sort of memories the freak likes to keep around?"

Sherlock froze, eyes growing wide as he stared at the dusty book in her hands. He hadn't opened it since he'd gotten the news, hidden it to keep the memories away, the memories that now began to flood through his head. Staring, he watched as her hand went to open the cover, causing him to burst into action.

Lunging forward, he snapped the book out of her hand with a cry, "Don't touch that!"

The air quickly became thick, too hot, and he didn't think he could breathe properly, it was too stuffy. Tears began to fill his eyes, and he knew he had to leave, had to leave now before everyone watched him break down. Try as he might, he couldn't stop the memories, or the voice, nothing, he couldn't hold them back and he felt desperate.

"Get out!" he screeched, moving quickly to his bedroom, slamming the door shut. "John." the words came out like a prayer.

Looking up at the ceiling, he clutched the book to his chest, allowing the tears that he'd been holding back for months came forth. Broken sobs tore through his throat, once starting, only getting worse, he couldn't stop them. Slowly, he opened up the book, staring straight into his husbands smiling face, blurry through the tears.

"Oh, John." he sobbed, "Why? Why did you go? Where-where are you? Will you co-ome back? Plea-ease, for me, come back. I-I can't live without you, c-can't be on this world if-if you're not."

He ran his thumb softly over his cheek, wishing for the millionth time that he was here, with him now. Try as he might, John constantly occupied his thoughts, every waking and sleeping one of them, despite how hard he tried to hold them back. Despite how hard he fought, it had been getting harder to hold back his thoughts, his depression, his only relief being cases, any and all.

"Sherlock?" Greg's voice came from the door, following a small knock.

"Get out! Get out now!" he cried.

"The case-"

"I don't give a-a damn about-about some God forsaken case! I-I quit, get ou-out!"

Getting up, he threw the book heavily against the door, crying harder as it broke, smashing to the floor, bending the pictures. He ran to John's drawer, ruffling through it, finding anything he could and throwing it against the door.

"Out!" he repeated with each throw, "Get out!"

When he could no longer find anything, he looked up, breathing heavily along with broken moans and sobs. Making his way to the closet, he went to the very back, grasping one of John's old jumpers and a pair of his pants. Pulling them on, he crawled to the bed, pulling himself in and to John's side. He curled around a pillow, breaths coming in small bursts, around his cries, his chest heaving with effort.

O_o

Lestrade followed the officers, having just arrested the man outside of Sherlock's flat, figuring it out as a few things were pointed out to him. Looking up, he found the room he assumed to be Sherlock's pitch black. He wondered what could possibly have made the man freak out like that, the sound of things crashing against the door echoing in his mind.

He quickly decided to check up on him before he left, making his way quietly up the stairs. Swiftly, he re-opened Sherlock's front door, entering through the kitchen and up to the awaiting door. Slowly, he turned the handle, sighing when it clicked open without another noise. Greg pushed the door open, hearing the rustling of objects being moved.

Glancing down, he found papers, the scrapbook, and other pieces of random junk. He moved forward, taking his eyes away from the mess, and maneuvering to the large bed that lay in the center of the room.

Hearing small sobs, he moved to the side, seeing Sherlock holding tightly to a pillow, wearing clothes he knew weren't his own. Tears made their way freely down his face, his eyes puffy and red. The shallow breathing, despite the sobs, indicated that he was asleep, and Lestrade felt his heart break at the sight. He'd never seen anyone, let alone Sherlock Holmes, look so bloody vulnerable in his life.

Getting up, he turned to make his way back, unsure of what to do with this new information. He stopped when he thought he heard the sleeping man whimper something. Turning slightly, he listened harder, catching the few words.

"He's gone, he's gone and he won't come back."

** Well, that's it. Next chapter will be posted Saturday! Thanks again, and reviews, follows, and everthing else is very much welcome!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:**** I own nothing, the characters and show belong to the writers and producers of BBC.**

** Thank you for all the lovely comments. No, John is not dead, yes, he will come back, but at the end of the story, so for now, feel sad! Just kidding, enjoy and review, it boosts the ego :P **

_**Chapter 3**_

Lestrade decided, after not having seen or heard from Sherlock in over a week, to go and check up on him. He knocked on the door to 221B and smiled at Sherlock's small landlady. She smiled back, but it didn't quite reach her eyes as she opened the door fully, allowing him inside.

"Is Sherlock here? I was hoping to be able to see him." he explained.

"Yes, he's upstairs, he hasn't been out since you last came." she said softly.

Greg nodded to her in thanks, moving towards the stairs and slowly climbing. As he came upon Sherlock's door, he heard voices. Listening, he noted one to be Sherlock's and the other's to be a man's he didn't recognize. Slowly, he turned the knob, opening the door to find the flat devoid of any other being besides a sleeping Sherlock.

The telly was on, pictures playing across the screen, the voices he'd heard belonging to them. Sherlock was on the couch, curled up, facing the screen, fast asleep. Lestrade would go as far to say he looked even worse than he'd had before. His hair was greasy, not looking like he'd showered in days, and his eyes were still red rimmed, wet streaks on his cheeks. The man looked half starved, and Greg had to wonder when he had eaten last.

"Come on, Sherlock." came a laughing voice from the screen.

Lestrade looked up, seeing Sherlock on the screen, head bent over a microscope in his kitchen.

"I don't understand," he sighed, still not looking up, "why you want to do this."

"It's the same reason for the pictures. Please, Love, for me?" the other's voice came from behind the camera.

Sherlock finally looked up with a huff, "What do you want me to do? I was in the middle of an experiment, John."

"Don't lie, as soon as I took out the camera, you ran off into the kitchen claiming you couldn't because you had an experiment. You haven't moved the dials, or messed with the test subject since I came in."

Sherlock glared at the screen, "You still haven't told me what you want me to do."

"Stop acting like a bratty kid, that'd be nice. Could you do that?"

Sherlock pouted, and Lestrade gave a small laugh. The man behind the camera came into view, his back still facing towards the screen as he walked up to Sherlock. Gaping, Greg watched as the man, John, leaned down, kissing The Sherlock Holmes on the lips, and Sherlock closed his eyes, kissing back.

When John pulled back, Sherlock sighed, his eyes fluttering open, "Fine, what is it that you wanted to do?"

"Well, I think," he said turning around, giving Greg the first glance of his face, "they're called vlogs. We just film random stuff, and we watch it later. We can call them home videos, instead, though."

"So you want to film me sitting here? Hey!" he called as the man disappeared behind the camera once more, "If I'm in here, you have to be too."

John huffed a laugh, moving back into the shot and over to Sherlock.

"Why do you want to film this? Why not film something interesting, like me at a crime scene. I think I've almost proven that I can solve cases better than those at Scotland Yard, and they should be begging for my help soon."

John moved behind Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on top of the other's head.

"Well, I'd be jealous if anyone else besides you were in the shot. That includes the dead body." he murmured.

"So we're just going to film this? Just sitting here and talking about filming stuff?"

John shrugged, kissing Sherlock's dark mess of curls, "Sure, why not?"

"Because it's boring."

"But I want to remember this, maybe when the day has been long and hard, I'll come back to my camp, pick up my camera, and just watch this."

Sherlock breathed, shifting his head up so John's chin lay against his temple, his eyes closed. Lestrade had never seen the man look so in peace, and it shocked him to find out Sherlock had someone, someone long before he'd been with Scotland Yard.

"I love you." John whispered, moving his hand down to grasp Sherlock's hand.

"Mm, I love you too." he whispered, placing their hands together so two matching rings touched, and Lestrade gasped. The video cut off there, and he looked over at the sleeping form of Sherlock Holmes, moving forward and searching his left hand. Sure enough the man wore the same ring he saw in the video.

"No, no, no!" John's voice came back, once again filled with laughter.

Greg looked up, the scenery had changed and the two were now at the beach.

"Get back in, I want to film that. Do it again."

Sherlock walked towards the screen, dripping wet, a frown marring his features.

"You're asking me to go back into that god forsaken, freezing water and get pummeled by waves again?" he asked in exasperation.

"Let me set up the camera and we'll go together."

"So we're leaving the camera here to get stolen?"

"No one's here, it won't get stolen." he provided, moving the camera around to show the empty shoreline.

"There is a reason why no one is here! It's cloudy, windy, and cold, and I must ask why you thought that today, of all days, would be a good day for you to take me to the beach?"

"I like the beach, now stop complaining, tell the camera what the date is, and time."

"I'm not talking to a camera." he refused, folding his arms across his chest, shivering.

"Please?" John asked, the rustling of the camera stopping as he came forward.

Scowling, he turned towards the camera, giving the date and time as well as the weather conditions and temperature. John laughed, grabbing the detective's hand and pulling him back towards the ocean, Sherlock yelling laughing protests as he was dragged back into the water.

Sherlock looked the most happy and peaceful Greg had ever seen him, and in that moment he thought that Sherlock really was beautiful. He watched as emotions danced over the man's face, the utter love and adoration he held for the man named John. He looked back at the sleeping face and wondered who exactly this John was and where he was.

"Sherlock." Lestrade whispered, bending down and shaking his shoulder.

Said man mumbled something and turned over, curling further into himself dressed in what Lestrade now understood to be John's clothes.

"Come on, let's get you showered and changed and maybe something to eat."

The man's eyes opened blearily, blinking up at Lestrade, "Don't want to."

"Let's go, up you get." he grunted, tugging the man to his feet.

"Lestrade?" he asked groggily as he was led to the shower.

"Yes, now come, let's get you washed up and changed. What do you want for dinner?"

"Not hungry." he said dully, staring at the wall of the bathroom.

Bending over, he turned on the water, running his hand under until he deemed it a good temperature, fiddling with the knobs for a moment before getting it to turn into a shower stream. Turning back, he stared at the other man who seemed to have forgotten there was anybody else there.

"You have to eat something." he said softly, but sternly. "I'll order a pizza, now shower. If you want, I'll get you a change of clothes, give me those and I'll wash them."

The look Sherlock gave him was one he'd never seen before and never thought he'd see on the detective. The man's eyes were wide, fearful, his mouth slack, as he gripped the shirt tighter, a whimper falling from his lips.

"No! Y-you can't!"

"Sherlock, please, they're dirty, they need to be cleaned. I'll give them back once they're done." he pleaded as he watched his hands tighten around the jumper.

"No, no, you don't understand!" he said, his voice breaking, "If-if you wash them, they-they won't smell like him."

Tears were once again streaming down his pale face. Greg kneeled down, looking up into Sherlock's eyes, placing a hand on his knee.

"Sherlock, it's okay, but they don't smell like him now. They smell like you because you've been wearing them for the past couple of days."

Looking at him, Sherlock relented with a small sob, pulling it off and handing it to the D.I., who left the room and let him finish stripping before coming back in to grab the pants. Leaving, he went passed the telly, another video coming on.

Pausing, he noted Sherlock, by himself, looking sadly into the screen.

"John, you left today for Afghanistan and I miss you so much already. I know it's illogical, you haven't been gone more than an hour, but I swear I can feel your presence missing from the flat. I just wanted to give you one last video, which I'll be sending, telling you everything I haven't yet.

"John," he cleared his throat, "I love the way you smile, it brightens up your entire face, making your beautiful blue eyes shine. I love how you laugh at the stupidest things, just because they make you happy. I love the way you give me random kisses when I'm least expecting it, even though I always complain. I love the feel of my hand in yours, how you somehow make your hold soft, yet protective. I love your brain, because even though it isn't necessarily genius, it's very smart. I love the way you hum in the morning, the way you walk into the flat after you've come home from training. The way you sit on the couch just staring at me. I love everything about you, but what I think I love most is your heart, because it has shown me love when no other has, and even though I don't deserve it, I treasure it higher than my own mind. I love you, with everything I have, and I may not show it much, or in the correct way, but I do. Please, John, please," he whispered, tears beginning to fall from his eyes, "be careful and don't leave me."

Sherlock stood up, giving the screen a wink and a smile, coming forward to kiss it before turning it off.

**I know, you're all sad now. It gets better, promises. Until Wednesday!**


	4. Chapter 4

__**Disclaimer:**** I own nothing, the characters and show belong to the writers and producers of BBC.**

** Well, this one is less depressiong, yay! Mycroft makes an appearance, so enjoy that, if you will, and review, yada, yada, yada. Thanks for previous yadas and I hope everyone likes it!**

_**Chapter 4**_

Lestrade was walking up to Sherlock's flat the next week, having been there every day since he'd found out Sherlock was married. He'd stopped by Mrs. Hudson's before he left, and she told him, with teary eyes, that John was suspected to be dead. John had been missing for over three months and the army had given him up for dead.

"And the saddest thing is that I still think Sherlock still holds hope that he'll come back, we all do, but I think that he still deludes himself slightly of the actual chances. That's how he's been getting by since he's gotten the news, or at least that's what I think." she explained.

Every time Lestrade came over, he found most of the same thing, album books out, a video playing on the telly, and Sherlock on the couch in John's clothing. He had been awake two times staring at the screen with tearful eyes, sitting in silence, but the rest, he'd been asleep.

This allowed him to get to know John, but also get to know Sherlock in a way he'd never even imagined him. The man he saw was sensitive, he was happy, he smiled, he loved, and it was all new to Lestrade, but he couldn't help but think the man was utterly adorable like that.

Hoping to help relieve him in some way, Greg had brought some cold case files for Sherlock to go over. It killed him to see him that way, used to the strong, stoic man at crime scenes. He wanted to meet the side of Sherlock John brought out, and was desperate to help him through the depression.

As he came up the steps, a car pulled up, a man coming out to open the door. Greg stared at him for a second, wondering what exactly he should do, before his question seemed to be answered for him. A woman came out, staring at her phone for a minute, typing something, before looking up and smiling.

"Get in, please. Mr. Holmes is waiting for you."

He stepped forward, confusion seeping from his features as he made his way into the back seat, the woman sliding in after him. The man shut the door, going towards the front to get into the driver's side, restarting the car and pulling out.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Mm, you'll see." she replied, back on her phone.

"Is Sherlock not in his flat?"

"Not that Mr. Holmes." she said emotionlessly.

"There are more Holmes?!" he asked in shock and fear. If Sherlock wasn't bad enough, he had to worry about another one?

"Yes, we'll be there in a minute. He wishes to speak with you about his brother."

He sighed in exasperation, leaning his head back against the seat. He really didn't know anything about Sherlock Holmes, did he?

The rest of the ride past in silence, Greg watching out the window as buildings and streets jumped by. Just as it was coming to the fifteen minute mark, he began to worry where exactly he was being taken and if he really was going to meet Sherlock's brother. Letting out a sigh of relief, he watched as the car slowed in front of a large building.

"Follow the man standing in front," the woman pointed, "he'll show you where Mr. Holmes is."

"Thanks." he said, opening his door, "I think."

Walking up the large steps, he followed the man inside, trying to remember each hall they passed through and each room they entered. They came upon two large, white, double-doors, the man raising his hand to knock. It quietly reverberated through the empty halls, a muffled voice coming from the inside before the doors were opened and he was pushed inside.

The room was large, covered in beige wall paper, a large, white fireplace to his left. There was a couch and two chairs, along with a small coffee table in the middle next to the roaring fire. Right in front of him was a large, brown, antique desk covered in files and papers. Behind the desk was a large window, which the white, cushioned chair was facing.

"Welcome, Mr. Lestrade." a voice came from behind the cushions. "Please, sit down."

Walking up slowly, Greg moved to a chair, seating himself in front of the desk, watching as the chair turned to reveal a large man. The man smiled, the man he could only assume to be Mycroft Holmes, and placed his hands beneath his chin, resting his head on them, staring at Lestrade.

"It seems," he began, "that you have taken on the futile project of trying to help my brother."

Lestrade looked at him, frowning, "Futile?"

"Yes, futile. He's a dead man walking, Mr. Lestrade."

"He seems pretty alive to me, just depressed." he argued, leaning back against the chair and folding his arms.

"Have you heard the stories of old couples, how after one dies, the other follows soon after? Well, my brother seems intent on such self-destruction. He's lost the one person who's ever tried and successfully loved him, and I doubt that will happen again. As you know, he is a difficult man, and John Watson is-was a one of a kind person, willing to put up with Sherlock."

"Are you saying that it's impossible for no one else to love your brother? Because you're wrong."

Mycroft looked at him for a moment with his all-seeing eyes, before a sad smile crossed his face.

"I see." he sighed.

"What?" Greg snapped.

"You love him, or at least like him, far more than a friend."

He spluttered for a moment, "That's-that's totally-"

"True. You've been coming over for the past week, you've seen the videos, I'm sure, you've seen that side of him. I can see it in your eyes, you want it back, and you want it to be directed to you." he paused, the smile leaving, his face turning serious. "But Sherlock will only ever love John Watson, as I said, he seems intent on his desire to no longer live without him. If you pursue this, it will only lead to depression on your part."

"So, what?!" he asked, "I just leave him? That man, as you said, is on a path to self-destruction, and I would, at least, prefer to prevent it for some time. I would like to try and bring back the man John Watson made."

"And it is a noble cause, but what John Watson made, he took with him. The only thing that would stop this would be to bring John Watson back. My brother has a very one track mind, he'd never allow himself to love another even if-though John Watson is dead."

"So you want me to stop trying? Whether he ever likes me back doesn't matter, I would just like him to-to not look like that, and feel like that for the rest of his life."

"You can continue, but are you sure that all you want is for him to get better, despite his feelings towards you?"

"Yes, that does not matter as much as him just not being like some catatonic, non-living creature."

Mycroft nodded after searching him once again with his eyes, "If you're sure. But I fear this will be painful on your part."

"It isn't impossible." he tried, but the man just gave him another sad smile.

"If you would please," he said, sliding a card to him across the desk, "take my brother here tomorrow at five, it would be very much appreciated."

Lestrade eyed the card, reaching out a slow hand to grab it.

"An airport?" he asked.

"A private airport, for my special guests. You have clearance, so don't worry about getting through, just make sure to be there on time, with my brother." he said sternly.

"What happens if I don't?"

"Look, I don't want my brother to die either, this is my last and only hope to make him even a fraction better. If you do not take him, I will."

Greg looked back at the card before glancing up again and giving a short nod. Standing up, he turned and left the room without another word, finding the same man still waiting outside.

When he'd gotten back, he heard a strange noise coming from Mrs. Hudson's flat. Going up and knocking, she took a few moments to come to the door, schooling her features. The tear tracks down her face stood out as she looked up at the detective.

"Are you all right Mrs. Hudson?" he asked worriedly.

She burst back into tears, nodding feverishly, "P-please, don't-don't worry abou-out me dear. J-just-just so h-happy!"

He watched as she ran back inside, slamming the door on his confused face quickly.

Standing there, he shook himself, turning to head back up the stairs, entering the small flat. He was unsurprised to find the telly on and Sherlock asleep on the couch, red eyes closed, giving him a brief moment of peace before he awoke.

**Okay, we're getting there! Sorry it's late, but I'm a little under the weather and fell asleep as soon as I got home. Hope everyone enjoyed, see you Saturday!**


	5. Chapter 5

__**Disclaimer:**** I own nothing, the characters and show belong to the writers and producers of BBC.**

** Okay, so I think this is the one you all have been waiting for! Thanks to everyone who gave yaydas and Enjoy the chapter!**

_**Chapter 5**_

Sherlock woke the next day, going through his usual motions of leaving the bed Greg seemed to insist on putting him in every night, and making his way to the living room. Slowly, almost mechanically, he went through the old videos, picking the last one that he had yet to watch, but he had to watch it. It was his last connection to John, if he lost this, he didn't think he could find the strength to live the rest of the day.

He sat on the couch, waiting for the screen to stop being blank and curled in on himself. The video started, and he couldn't hold back the whimper and sob that escaped his lips from the sight before him.

John sat in his tent in his army uniform, smiling widely at the camera like he wasn't in the middle of a war.

"Hello, my love, I just got your video and decided to recuperate with one of my own. I have to admit that it shocked the hell out of me, but in a good way. The way that made me cry like a baby from happiness. I miss you so much and I can't wait to talk to you over Skype and come home for the holidays. Let me just tell you everything, well some of the things I love about you. If I said everything it would last longer than this war.

"What I love most is your brain, the brain that somehow allowed you to love me despite your abhorrence for sentiment. I love your heart, because you do have one and I am the one who owns it. I love your ever changing eyes, the little freckle in them. I love your soft lips, the way they curve into a smile after I've told you I love you or when we've made love."

Lestrade pulled up, letting himself into the flat, once again hearing a voice form upstairs, but this time there was no Sherlock. He moved slowly, quietly entering the flat to see an awake Sherlock staring desperately at the telly, watching John, who seemed to be filming in his camp. Too intent on the screen, Sherlock didn't notice the other man walk in.

Setting down the few bags he'd brought over, he listened to the monologue being said in the video.

"I love," he continued, "how lanky you are, because despite your tallness, it makes you smaller than me mass wise." he laughed, "I love how light you are, making it easy for me to pick you up, or to pull you onto me when we're just sitting or sleeping. I love your hair, how soft it is, how you purr when I run my fingers through it.

"I love your fragileness, despite the strong suit you put on to the rest of the world, and I need you to be strong when I say this. I will try," he choked, tears coming to his eyes, but he still smiled, "try with everything I have to come back to you, but I can't promise that I will, and you know that. Every breath I take, every fight I may not win, I will pull through, for you, but I am only human. If-if I don't come back, Love, promise me to find someone. I know you won't ever love anyone again because I know you, but make a friend. Someone who will stand up for you when they call you a freak, or to talk to about-about anything with. Trust them.

"I love you beyond comprehension, beyond anything I can control, and if ever I get into a tough spot, know I'll be thinking of you, and know that if I survive, it'll be because of you. I love you, I love you, I love you." he finished, the screen turning blank.

"Lestrade?"

Greg jumped, turning back from the bags, not having expected the man to have noticed him. He was usually ignored when he was there.

Sherlock was staring at him, the most horridly broken look on his face, his Addams Apple bobbing up and down as he held back sobs. His eyes search over Greg, watching him as if begging for some form of escape, some form of relief.

"Why?" he asked quietly.

"Why what?" Greg replied, moving slowly towards the man in front of him.

"Why are you here? Why do you care if I'm healthy or not? Why do you try?"

"Because I care for you."

He turned towards the screen, "L-like a friend?"

"Of course, I am your friend."

"He-he told me," he gulped, "told me to find a friend. Will you do it?"

"Of course I will." he said.

"I can-can talk to you? Tr-trust you?" he asked, his mask beginning to break.

"Yes." he said, making his way to the couch and sitting down.

"Why?" he asked again, this time breaking into sobs. "W-why di-id he lea-eave?"

"I don't know." he whispered. "Maybe, maybe it was just his time."

Sherlock sobbed harder, burying his face in his hands, "Why w-would it be hi-is time if-if he was so y-young? So-o good?"

"I really don't have the answers for you." he said softly, putting his hand on Sherlock's back.

"I-I miss him!"

"I know."

They sat there like that for two hours, Lestrade with his arm around a sobbing Sherlock, trying to provide an impossible comfort.

Lestrade glanced at the clock, sighing as the time read 3:30pm. He needed to get Sherlock to that place, it would be a fairly long drive and he figured that they better head out now, hope to avoid some traffic.

Ushering Sherlock up, he made him shower and dress as presentable as he could, getting him into a pair of his jeans, but the man refused to take off the most recent jumper he had found. Greg got him to eat a small amount, watching as he mostly just pushed food around his plate, staring at it in distaste.

They got into his car and he pulled out onto the busy streets of London. A cool winter breeze blew against the windows, fogging them up slightly as the car warmed. The clouds caused the darkening sky to grow darker as they made their way out of London and towards their destination.

Sherlock sat quiet, not once asking where they were going, just staring out the window. He'd situated himself so his feet were on the seat, knees pulled up to his chest, arms embracing them. His blank gaze shifted and began to move around the car, probably noticing everything, before settling on his bare feet. His shoes and sock lay on the car floor.

As the sky further darkened, they reached the small private airport, one plane waiting at a gate, and Lestrade had to wonder who exactly would be arriving to help Sherlock in a way nobody else could. Looking around, he noted a patter as rain began to fall onto the car and the pavement.

Pulling up to the gates, he rolled down the window, allowing the man to look into the car, recognizing them both, and waving for the gates to be opened. Once they were, he pushed the car through, going to the small, empty lot in front of the small airport.

It was 5:15, and the sky was completely taken over by nightfall now, rain seeming to come down harder. The lights of the airport shone brightly, yet blurrily through the rain, a cool chill climbing up their spines, only worsening as gusts of wind began to blow.

Pulling his coat tighter around himself and shivering like a mad man, Greg led them towards the building, the glass windows making up the entire front rattling in their holds. Escalators led up and down the two story building towards and away from security, a few grey desks lining the front. A small baggage claim area lying of to the right, the bathrooms on either side of the escalators.

Pulling the heavy door open, he pulled a shaking Sherlock inside and away from the harsh weather that attacked his prone form. The man was soaked in water from head to toe, his lips tinted blue, his porcelain face even more pale.

"I do not want to go back out there." Greg exclaimed, looking back as the rain echoed around them.

Sherlock looked at him, biting his bottom lip to stop his teeth from chattering, but his lower jaw trembled as he continued to shiver, pulling his arms tighter around himself.

The few people who milled around the downstairs, stared up at them as they entered, making faces as the cold air followed them in, causing the heat to back away slightly before fighting back and warming up the air.

An official looking man walked up to them, looking from one to the other, pulling two towels from behind the desk, along with two other jackets.

"Slightly unexpected weather, I must say." he said, watching as they toweled off, pulling their arms through the sleeves of the large coats.

"Yes." Lestrade replied, "Thank you."

"Not a problem Mr. Lestrade, if you and Mr. Holmes wouldn't mind following me."

"Watson." Sherlock spoke up.

"Excuse me?"

"It's-it's Watson, Mr. Watson." he said shakily.

The man smiled, "My apologies, if you wouldn't mind following me, Mr. Watson?"

Sherlock nodded, shuffling forwards.

The man led them up the escalators, flashing his badge as security came over to check them out. He walked past a few gates, coming upon the last one, the only one with the plane parked outside. He stopped, stepping away from them and towards the desk.

The seating area was empty apart from one man who had his head bowed, jiggling his leg, tightening and loosening his grip on a cane the rested on his side. His long, sandy hair stuck up at odd angles, a few bandages covering his shoulder. He was dressed in regular jeans, a large, pale green coat covered his frame, a beige jumper making itself known from beneath the coat.

The man looked up, and Lestrade felt his heart stop as he looked over at Sherlock, whose hands had moved to his face, covering his mouth, eyes wide.

"John!" he choked out, stepping forward slowly, as if he wasn't sure that it was really him.

The man stood, and it couldn't be anyone else but John Watson. He looked tired, skinny, face covered in a few more scars, but he was, without a doubt, John Watson.

"Sherlock." He replied in a quiet voice, cackling as if it hadn't been used in a while. "Oh, my Sherlock, my love."

It happened so fast that Lestrade swore he was a blur as Sherlock sprinted from where he stood to John. He threw himself at the other man, his arms going around the larger's neck, sobbing into his shoulder, repeating his name over again.

Together, they fell into a heap on the floor, a tangled mass of limbs. John pulled Sherlock closer until he completely surrounded the man. His head rested on top of Sherlock's, arms around the shuttering shoulders, legs wrapped around his bottom and legs.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He whispered into the sobbing man's hair.

"You're back." Sherlock whispered, tightening his grip.

** He's back! Yay! I hope everyone enjoyed, yadas are apreciated (for thos who are confused, yadas mean: comments, likes, follows, kudos, favorites, yada, yada, yada). Only one more chapter left, it's almost over. See y'all on Wednesday!**


	6. Chapter 6

__**Disclaimer:**** I own nothing, the characters and show belong to the writers and producers of BBC.**

_**Chapter 6**_

_Epilogue_

Lestrade left soon after the couple was reunited, knowing that he was barging in on a personal moment. His time with Sherlock had ended, as he knew it would, just as Mycroft had said, but he would be fine. Would move on.

Sherlock and John sat on the floor just hugging, tightening and loosening their grips, heads buried in one another, wrapped around each other seeking the comfort they were denied while the other had been gone. John was sure that they would have stayed like that for hours, after having spent too long apart, thinking he would die, but a man ushered them up, leading them down to a black car.

Refusing to let go, Sherlock seemed as if he were glued to John's side, smooshed up against the older man's body. Noting the shivering, John wrapped his large coat around Sherlock, revealing some of his other wounds. Sherlock's eyes raked over his husband's body, more tears forming in his eyes as he buried his head in John's neck, letting out shuttering gasps and breathing him in.

"It's okay," John whispered, voice still harsh, "I'm right here."

"Y-you were go-one!" he sobbed, trying to pull John even closer, "They-they to-old me you were-you were dead!"

"I'm not." he reassured, pulling Sherlock's frail body quickly to the waiting car, trying to avoid the cold as much as possible.

Once in the car, he allowed Sherlock to crawl into his lap, somehow curling his tall, lanky body into John's chest. Looking down, John ran his hand through the soft curls he'd missed, taking a deep, shuddering breath himself. He hadn't thought he was going to make it back, thought he'd be stuck in that place forever, but now he was safe, he had Sherlock to concentrate on now. He knew they'd have to revisit his time captured in enemy camps, but that was a time when Sherlock could support him, and as John looked at the smaller man, he didn't think he could support himself.

"Oh, Love." he said roughly, pulling Sherlock's head up to bring him into a deep, satisfying kiss.

Sherlock clung to him, reveling in John's presence, not having felt it for so long, not thinking he'd ever get to feel it again.

"What happened?" Sherlock whispered once the kiss broke, staring, searching John's eyes.

"I was captured," he whispered back.

"You-you were tortured?!" Sherlock squeaked, running his hands slowly over John's body, feeling it alive, solid beneath his palms.

"I'm okay," he promised.

"I almost lost you! I thought I had, John, I thought I had." he cried, again trying to burrow further into him, trying to feel as much as he could, not sure if this would be taken away from him too.

"But you didn't." he assured, "I came back. For you. I survived, for you."

"But, tor-" he gasped.

"Sh," John smiled, wiping more tears away, "You were tortured too, though not purposefully. The effects are no less different than yours, except my torture-" Sherlock whimpered, "was physical, and yours was mental. Both were harsh, unrelenting, and terrible. We'll both have to heal, together"

"You were gone," he whispered, "for so long. They gave up, made me think you were dead."

"I wasn't."

"No, and now you can't die before me, I can't go through that again." he panicked.

"I don't ever want to go through that, living without you."

"It was hard." he whispered.

"I'm sorry, but I'm here now, and I will try my best to never leave you again. It'll be hard though with the job you've been declaring to drag me to." he joked, trying to lighten the mood slightly.

"You'll enjoy it." Sherlock said, giving a small, watery smile.

"I will, and I heard the coworker isn't half bad." he said, pulling Sherlock ever closer, wrapping himself further around the man.

"Oh really? Describe them to me." he said into John's neck.

"Male, gorgeous, dark curly hair, soft lips, lanky, bit of a bastard."

"Hey!" Sherlock gave a strangled laugh, pulling back and smacking his chest lightly, being very careful not to hurt him. He was beginning to feel slightly giddy. John was back! He was alive! This wasn't some horrible dream!

"Just joking." he laughed back, pulling Sherlock back to himself.

"My coworker will be alright as well." Sherlock mumbled into his chest.

"I would hope so, I would begin to worry if you lost interest in them."

"I don't think I ever could, I might just be a little bit in love with him."

"Well that works out nicely, I think I might just be a little bit in love with my future coworker as well." John smiled, leaning down and giving Sherlock another a deep kiss.

Pulling back, he heard Sherlock mumble, "A lot, I'm a lot in love with him."

O_o

_One Month Later_

"Okay Love, now you have to smile for me. Please?" John begged, holding up the video camera as they made their way to their first official crime scene together. It had taken time, but the nightmares were going down, for both, and life became enjoyable again. That was, until Sherlock began getting restless in the flat. Both refused to be out of the others sight, so neither had been working, no one being able to ever see one without the other.

Mycroft seemed to be kindly paying their food and rent, being unlikely that Sherlock would ever really let him out of his sight. They were practically connected at the hip, doing anything and everything together.

John had once again taken up filming and photographing their experiences. He loved re-watching them with Sherlock, who had cried at the last one, as John had cried at his personal video.

They were better now, they really were. Sherlock seemed to have stopped freaking out whenever John left the room for more than a second. John began telling Sherlock his experiences. All was going well.

"John, this is a crime scene. I highly doubt they will be willing to let you bring a camera onto it." Sherlock stated, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, but please. It's our first day together back at the job, The Work you almost let keep us apart."

"Never, you made me fall in love with you too fast. My head didn't even have time to spin. Nothing would, or could, ever stop us from being together."

"How sweet, now smile! Wink and smile, people love that." John laughed.

"John!" Sherlock groaned like a small child.

"Please?!" John said again, turning the camera so it zoomed closer in on Sherlock's pouting face.

Sighing in exasperation, Sherlock gave a wink and a smile, the smile disappearing quickly as he scowled.

"Happy?"

"Yes, now I get to always have this wonderful film of your scowling face to remember you by." he joked.

"When would you need to remember me?" he asked worriedly, biting his lip and turning his head slightly.

John shut off the camera, grasping Sherlock's chin in his hand so that the taller man was looking down into his eyes.

"I don't plan on ever being without you again, it was horrible, but I at least knew you were alive. I don't think I can ever apologize enough for that fact."

Sherlock gave a small sniffle, trying to clear his features back into the nonchalant mask, "Not your fault."

John hummed, fiddling with the camera for a few more moments before once again turning it on and facing it towards himself, leaning towards Sherlock so he was in the shot as well. He excitedly explained the situation, ecstatic when Sherlock interrupted, explaining the crime he'd been dying to see, the excitement rubbing off.

As they arrived on the scene, John went back to holding the camera and looking around, most likely going back to Sherlock every few seconds to watch him before moving on.

"Well, well, well, look who's back? It's the freak!" John heard someone say.

John froze, eyes snapping from the camera, instantly shutting it again, and stalking over to where Sherlock stood.

"What did you say?" he growled.

"Who are-?" she began, eyes wide.

"I'm his husband, and who do you think you are to get off telling him things like that?" he snarled.

"John, it's alri-" Sherlock began.

"It is not bloody alright, Sherlock. You seriously put up with this? The way she says it comes too naturally for this to be a one-time thing, Sherlock. How long has this been going on?" his protective side flared up as he stepped in front of Sherlock.

"John, please, can't we just go to the crime scene?" he begged, not really wanting to get into it now, or ever.

"Fine," he snapped, "but we are talking about this when we get home and don't you think otherwise!"

Sherlock nodded, stepping forwards and holding up the tape for John, who stalked under passed a gaping Sally.

"Sherlock!" Greg's voice suddenly came, "Wow, we haven't seen you here since we busted your flat."

"Busted?" John asked, looking warily at the other man.

Lestrade turned to him, a smile alighting his face as he remembered who this was, "John! Erm, yeah. Stole a case, thought it'd be best to find it legally if we went into the flat with the excuse of a drugs bust." John raised his brows, "Not that he had any, just-just an excuse." he continued, smile still playing at his lips.

"John wanted to film." Sherlock broke in, reaching for the camera, which John haughtily kept from his reach.

"I do not trust you with this, last time you had your hands on it, it 'disappeared' and I found it in the washing machine!"

Sherlock continued to reach, and a fond smile came over Lestrade's face as the banter continued, Sherlock giving up after a few minutes.

"Never mind, tell him he can't film here."

"You can film here." Greg said immediately, causing Sherlock to gape at him and John to look confused. "I-well, erm, I saw the other videos and thought it was very sweet. Consider it a coming home gift."

John gave him a soft smile, "You helped him, didn't you?"

He shrugged, "As much as I could, but it wasn't much. I'm sure you've already gotten the full details."

John looked at Sherlock sadly, who looked back, pain flitting through his mind at the memories. He turned, handing Greg the camera.

"Hold this."

Walking over to Sherlock, he took the man's face in his hands, rubbing his thumbs lightly over the soft, jutting cheek bones. He brought the younger's head down, resting their foreheads together and smiling.

"Look at where we are now. Here, in the present, both alive and well, and I believe us to be fairly alive and well in the future. You, you gorgeous man, are the most important thing in the world to me, and I thank every lucky star that I got to come back with you, and I will never take that gift for granted. Leaving you, that's something I know I will never do, and I say it's about time to forget the past, delete it, and concentrate on the present, the future. I love you, and never again will you have only pictures, videos, and memories to keep you company."

"Promise?" he whispered, the crime scene had disappeared long ago.

"Promise."

_**The End**_

**There it is, the end! Hope everyone enjoyed, I loved writing this and Sherlock stories will be posted on Saturdays and Wednesdays. New story next week, read, or don't. Thank you, everyone, for sticking with it and the yadas, it is highly appreciated.**


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